Wounds
by Psychomech
Summary: Dean is injured on a hunt. Sam tries to take care of him, but Dean's not one to sit on the sidelines when Sam's facing cannibalistic spirits. This story exists solely for stomach!kink.


This was written 10 months ago for someone on LJ with a stomach!kink. Until now, I hadn't seen any point in posting it as it doesn't have much of a plot. However, I'd hate to know there were those out there with stories about my kinks that they hadn't posted. Oh, and this is my first completed fic ever.

* * *

Sam completed the ritual in the motel room just as she plunged her hand, edged with deadly sharp talons, into Dean's gut. The woman convulsed, her eyes flaring gold in the darkness of the forest. Her hand ripped free of the wound as she went down. Clutching his stomach to keep his guts from spilling out, Dean fumbled one handedly for the burning dagger. He grasped it tightly, mouth set in a grim line, and drove it through her spinal column.

"That's right, bitch," Dean spat at the corpse before a sudden wave of vertigo laid him flat on his back. He glanced down at his wound. He could barely feel it, which was probably a bad sign, but he could see an alarming amount of blood staining his shirt.

He was using both hands to apply pressure when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Dean fumbled it open with a blood slick hand. "Sam."

"Dean? Is she dead? Are you okay?"

"Think I need to see a doctor, Sammy," Dean mumbled, watching the trees above him rotate slowly. He could feel his ab muscles trembling as he tried to press harder on the wound with icy fingers. The phone slid from his grasp and tumbled down the hill. _Shit_, he thought as unconsciousness overtook him.

* * *

Three days later found Sam and Dean holed up in a motel outside of Portland with the unfortunate theme of beavers. Dean had several bottles of extra special pills and his very own wheelchair. It had taken twenty one stitches to close his gut back up and a lot of salve to the hand he'd burnt on the enchanted dagger.

"Man, I hate ancient deities," Dean groused, flipping through channels on the crummy old TV. It was about the only thing he could do unaided, aside from feed himself. "Don't we have enough deities?"

"People need something to believe in, Dean," Sam said from behind his laptop.

"Yeah, but-"

"Dean, we've had this conversation three times already. Can you just watch TV and rest, please?"

"No, Sam, I can't just watch TV and rest. I'm bored. I want to hustle pool or hunt a freaking poltergeist or _something!_"

Sam checked the time. "Just take your pills."

Dean stared for a moment before cupping his bandaged hand around his stitches and twisting to grab the bottle from the nightstand with the other. He downed the pills with a quick swig from a water bottle sitting beside the stuffed beaver. "I have a great idea. How about we get us some tequila?" His stomach gurgled. "And burritos."

"No tequila. And we just ate breakfast an hour ago."

"Resting is hard business, Sammy." Sam remained hunched behind the laptop, one hand gripping his coffee. "Alright, whatever man. I'm hitting the can. You think about those burritos."

Dean flung his legs over the edge of the bed, pressing his hand to the stitches to counteract the pulling sensation. He had just stood up with a wince when Sam caught sight of him.

"Woah, hey man. Use the wheelchair. You're gonna rip yourself open again." Sam hurried over and turned the wheelchair toward Dean.

"No way," Dean said, ignoring the pain flaring beneath his fingers and making his way around the bed. "I'm not using a wheelchair to go seven feet to a damn bathroom."

"You will or I'll be using the wheelchair to haul your stubborn ass back to the hospital for popping your stitches." Dean set his teeth and glared. Sam stared back, raising his eyebrows in expectantly and nudging the wheelchair toward Dean.

"Fine," Dean finally grated as sweat began collecting on his brow from the strain.

"And I'm changing your dressings when you're done."

"Stop with the mother hen, Sam," Dean said as he wheeled himself toward the bathroom. He caught a flash of Sam's patented bitch face in her peripheral vision and almost grinned.

* * *

Ten minutes later had Dean back in bed, arms beneath his head.

"Lift up your shirt."

Dean felt his stomach muscles tense and quiver as Sam's cool hands began peeling off the old bandage. He inspected Dean's stomach, checking for redness or swelling but all he saw was smooth skin and an ugly wound. "Doesn't look infected." Sam set the bandage aside and picked a paper napkin, dipping it into the water warmed in the motel coffee pot. He dabbed at the wound, cleaning away the clear fluid that had leaked from it in the past day. Dean hissed as one of the stitches caught on the napkin.

"So, I've found a job in the area," Sam said, catching Dean's eye. He dipped a new napkin into the coffee pot and continued dabbing at the wound. The TV droned a Spanish soap in the background.

"Yeah?" Dean flinched as Sam's left hand rested on the other side of Dean's stomach to keep him still. He'd guessed Sam was getting restless just sitting around.

"Yeah, just two towns over. Your run of the mill ghost in an abandoned house." Sam stopped dabbing at the wound and picked up the tube of antibiotic. "I even know where the grave is located. I'll head down there the day after tomorrow."

Dean frowned. "By yourself?"

Sam began applying the antibiotic liberally to the wound, again placing his cool hand on Dean's stomach to still him. "It's a simple job. I could do this sort of thing when I was ten." Sam didn't seem to notice his thumb gently rubbing Dean's stomach, though it was soothing him somewhat. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"We weren't this unlucky when you were ten. I'm coming with you," Dean said, staring up at Sam with adamant green eyes.

Sam's thumb stopped moving and he met Dean's eyes. "Dude, you can't even walk. You should stay here and rest. I'll finish it up in a couple hours and be back before you know it."

Dean snorted. "I don't need to walk. I can drive. I'll hang out in the car in case you need back up. Besides, my baby _misses_ me." His gaze drifted over to the window, where he could just see the top of the Impala illuminated by moonlight.

"Dean-"

"No, Sam. My baby needs me. I won't let her down. Besides, you said it's a simple job. I'm just there to chauffeur your ass." Dean crossed his feet and looked down his body to his stitches. "You just gonna leave me hanging here?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You can come on two conditions. One, you use the wheelchair like the doctor told you to for the rest of the week." Dean opened his mouth to speak but Sam cut him off. "Even to go to the bathroom. Two. You don't leave the car unless I call you. Agreed?"

"But-"

"_Agreed?_" Sam said more forcefully, pressing into Dean's stomach with his left hand.

"Alright," Dean sighed as Sam started unrolling the gauze. "So, wanna get Mexican?"

* * *

The drive to the haunted house didn't take more than half an hour, but he was in a damn good mood as they arrived there. Autumn was in full swing and with his coat on and the windows cracked, he didn't feel too hot or cold as he had the past several days. Even his gut felt a lot better. Sitting in his car, feeling her purr, was probably a lot better for his health than being cooped up in a room filled with stuffed beavers. The only downside was that he couldn't get drunk and watch TV while driving.

"Alright, I'm just gonna go in and scope things out," Sam said as he hefted the rock salt shotgun. "Make sure there's a ghost before I get busted digging up graves. I'll be right back to grab the shovel."

Dean watched Sam's retreating back, legs stretched out the drivers side door. He pressed a hand to his stitches and was rewarded with only a slight throb when he got to the middle of the wound. He glanced up at the house again, leaning his own shotgun against the open door of the car, and took a deep breath of fresh air.

Suddenly, he heard a crash and was pelting toward the house before he was even aware he'd moved. Dean flung open the door. "Sammy!"

Another crash came from upstairs and immediately he headed in that direction. He felt his guts tighten as he pounded up the steep, dusty steps. Into the first bedroom, where he'd heard the noise. Sam was sprawled with the remnants of a nightstand, bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

"Dean, behind you!"

Dean whipped around and fired two shots, dispersing the ghost of a cannibalistic pig farmer.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean hoisted Sam up, ignoring a flash of pain searing through his gut, "You've gotta go find that grave. I'll distract this guy." The farmer was materializing again in the hallway. "Go!" Dean fired another round of rock salt as Sam ran down the steps.

"C'mon, you flesh-eating bastard," Dean goaded as he descended onto the main floor and began making his way into the basement. He caught a flash from the corner of his eye and turned, facing a desk covered in old yellow newspapers under a tiny window. He caught another flash from the corner of his eye.

_He's distracting me. There's something..._ Dean turned to face the door to the basement's cold room. Another flash, closer this time. Dean brought the butt of his gun down on the lock. The wood gave way immediately and the door sagged open, the lock still dangling from the jam. A human skeleton tumbled out. Just as Dean's eyes were widening, the ghost caught him under the chin and sent him flying into the desk, scattering the papers.

_Shit, what if those are his bones?_ Dean didn't have anything he'd need for a salt and burn. He lifted his gun, trying to catch a flash of the ghost again, as he began rummaging through the desk drawers behind him. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his stomach as his hand clenched around something glass.

He held up a bottle of whiskey. "Oh, hell yeah!"

A wooden chair across the room shot up and hurtled toward him. Dean dove, clutching the bottle. _Salt..._ He pulled a shotgun shell from his pocket and immediately set cutting the top off with his boot knife. The ghost appeared and sent him flying again. Dean gave a shout as his back slammed into the door jam of the cold closet and immediately ducked as a brick smashed into the wall. Prying the top off the shell, he hurriedly sprinkled the salt over the bones.

"Gotta be enough," Dean muttered, dashing the body with whiskey and smashing the bottle in it's ribs. He threw his Zippo into the closet and turned to face the poltergeist as the bones went up.

The ghost, however, didn't.

"Aw, shit." The ghost reappeared three feet in front of him and dove, catching him right on his gut wound and cracking his head on the wall. Dean groaned as pain speared through him, trying to pull his organs out through his mouth. He was immobilized.

A howl suddenly filled the basement as the ghost got eaten by flame.

"Dean!" Sam's voice echoed through the abandoned house as Dean lay on the dirt floor, trying force down the vomit that was threatening. "Dean!" He heard Sam's footsteps pound up to the second floor and down again before heading into the basement. "Dean!"

Dean grunted, his good hand pressed against his abdomen and his other over his face. He opened his eyes and struggled to sit up, wincing.

"No, wait, let me take a look at that." Dean eased his body back down as Sam leaned over him, smelling of smoke. He noticed a dark trickle running down the side of Sam's face.

"Shit Sam, you're bleeding-"

"Already clotted. Let me see your stitches." Sam pushed Dean's shirt up before Dean could fumble with his bandaged hand and pressed his hands to Dean's stomach. Dean nearly moaned as the coldness of Sam's hands pushed away the nausea.

"The body was in the yard?" Dean asked as Sam peeled away the bloody bandage.

"Yeah."

"That guy must have been one of his victims, then."

Sam nodded and used his shirtsleeve to blot at the blood Dean could feel trickling down his side. "Well, the middle one popped and you're bleeding, but you could probably just put a butterfly bandage on it now." Sam pushed his hair away from his face with his hand. His other was absently stroking the area around the wound. "It's mostly healed, though."

Dean propped his head on his arms and grinned, eyes twinkling. "We are _lucky_ sons of bitches. We are so getting burritos."


End file.
